before me stood old Biffy in person. If I had completed the last step I should have rammed him.
“Biffy!” I cried. “Well, well, well!”
He peered at me in a blinking kind of way, rather like one of his Herefordshire cows prodded unexpectedly while lunching.
“Bertie!” he gurgled, in a devout sort of tone. “Thank God!”
He clutched my arm. “Don’t leave me, Bertie. I’m lost.”
“What do you mean, lost?”
“I came out for a walk and suddenly discovered after a mile or two that I didn’t know where on earth I was. I’ve been wandering round in circles for hours.”
“Why didn’t you ask the way?”
“I can’t speak a word of French.”
“Well, why didn’t you call a taxi?”
“I